Stephanie Pedersen: Children at Tuesday fire hard to forget

On Tuesday, we were supposed to decorate the gingerbread house.

I'd been putting it off since I bought it this weekend.

You see, last year's gingerbread house was a disaster on several levels. I wasn't looking forward to it, to be honest.

Monday was longer than I expected, so I promised Tuesday, thinking I'd be home with enough time to unwind from work and then devote my attention to my daughter to see if maybe this time we could build a house that wouldn't crumble.

I wasn't home before 9 on Tuesday.

Around 3 p.m. that day, Columbus Fire & EMS received a call about an apartment fire on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. We soon had a call to the newsroom about visible smoke from Macon Road.

After photographer Mike Haskey arrived at the scene, he called me.

"We need to send a reporter here," he said.

With a smaller staff during the holidays, I grabbed a new notebook and ran to my car. It was hard to find a spot close enough to the scene, so I parked across the railroad tracks. I was sure I wasn't supposed to park there, but that's what I had to do.

I wasn't prepared.

Not professionally. My phone and iPad were charged. I had a pen and notebook.

I wasn't personally prepared.

The U-shaped Boulevard Apartments displaced at least 39 individuals when the 24-unit building went up in flames. There were at least 40 people at the Citgo across the street.

Some said they lived there. Others were just there to watch.

One woman talked about being the last one out.

I was desperate for someone who wasn't speaking with every other media outlet.

I found three kids.

And judging by one's response to what he thought was happening, these kids have seen more than I have. One said the fire touched his foot. The youngest, 3, said it went "boom." The oldest, 10, said this:

"I just thought it was a shooting."

Huh?

Me: "You mean with a gun?"

Boy: "Yea."

I was devastated. How many shootings has he heard? Why was he not hysterical? Why were the kids so calm?

So I sat and talked with them for a little bit. I had to do something. The gas station was closed, so I couldn't buy them a snack. Instead, I gave them my iPad and turned on Netflix.

I was hoping the "Pacman" movie they chose would help them zone out, away from this scene. And away from the man behind them that kept yelling "F--- the police. They don't care about us. They aren't going to help us."

He kept going.

"I've been to prison three times. I'm going back in January. I don't care if I take one of you with me or put one of you down before I go."

The children sat at his feet with a pink sheet wrapped around them.

They didn't flinch. They had heard this before.

Me: "How long have you been here?"

Boy: "Just a few weeks. We were just visiting."

That's not what his mom told me.

Me: "Well, where's home?"

Boy: "I don't know where home is."

After the sun went down and the battalion chief was sure no new information would come Tuesday night, I went back to the office and finished my story.

When I arrived home, there she was, waiting to do the gingerbread house at 9 p.m.

Honestly, I wasn't in the mood. The gingerbread house was the last thing on my mind. But I did it, because I promised her I would and because of those little boys.

They'll stick in my mind for a while.

Stephanie Pedersen, senior editor, spedersen@ledger-enquirer.com.

This story was originally published December 23, 2015 at 9:28 PM with the headline "Stephanie Pedersen: Children at Tuesday fire hard to forget ."